


Jumpers and Hundjagers: Or, Sixty-Three Hours in Portland

by ariadnes_string



Category: Grimm (TV), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-07
Updated: 2013-02-07
Packaged: 2017-11-28 13:24:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/674881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariadnes_string/pseuds/ariadnes_string
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft sends John and Sherlock on a diplomatic mission.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jumpers and Hundjagers: Or, Sixty-Three Hours in Portland

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jaune_Chat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaune_Chat/gifts).



> a/n: The story was written for the xover_exchange and originally posted [there](http://xover-exchange.livejournal.com/87205.html#cutid1).  
> a/n: Story takes place somewhere in the middle of Sherlock 2x01 and sometime after Grimm 1x18 and before the events of the S1 finale.  
> a/n: thanks to alizarin_nyc and dogpoet for the beta and encouragement—all remaining mistakes are my own.

John remembered this feeling from his deployments: boarding a plane in the dark; spending endless hours in the air; enduring layovers in anonymous rooms; then disembarking again in the dark—stiff, tired, and disorientated.

Ordinarily, he would’ve downed a pill, so he could at least catch some sleep out of the deal. But, while Mycroft’s reasons for sending Sherlock to Portland remained opaque, it was very clear why Mycroft had strong-armed John into going along. There was no end to the damage Sherlock could do himself in an aeroplane loo, drug-sniffing dogs be damned; John was meant to keep reasonably awake in order to—well, if not to prevent that happening, to at least undertake damage control were it to occur.

Luckily, the first-class cabin, courtesy of Mycroft, was more comfortable than any troop transport John had ever flown, and Sherlock seemed distracted enough by the contents of the flashdrive Mycroft had given him not to contemplate much mischief, so John was left with nothing worse than a crick in his neck and a general sense of grubbiness when they landed in PDX sixteen hours after leaving Heathrow.

“Now can you tell me what we’re doing here?” he asked, after they’d sailed through customs, John in his own person, Sherlock with a suspiciously new-looking passport.

“We’re envoys,” Sherlock told him, striking out towards the taxi queue. “You wouldn’t believe the pies my brother has his fingers in.”

“But why us—you? Surely he has, I don’t know, official lackeys, for this sort of thing. The entire diplomatic service. Not that I mind a chance to see the Pacific Northwest, mind you. Dream of mine, in fact. Just, well, you see my point.”

“Mmm,” Sherlock hummed dismissively. “I’m afraid _lackeys_ won’t do for this. It needs someone observant. Someone who can actually see what’s in front of him.”

John had no idea what Sherlock was on about, but that was nothing new. Neither of them mentioned the other reason Mycroft had sent them to one of the more remote cities of the United States: his oddly brotherly determination to shake Sherlock out of his protracted period of mourning for Irene Adler (or, as Mycroft was apt to put it, his endless sulk). John hoped it would work. Nothing else had.

John watched rain fall on the windshield of their cab. The raindrops seemed bigger here than they were in London, and he wondered whether Pacific raindrops were in the same proportion to English raindrops that Giant Redwoods were to ordinary trees as he let himself fall into a doze.

The cab pulled to a stop, startling John awake. While Sherlock muttered over the strange American bills in his wallet and the jangle of change the cabbie returned, John peered out the window. And saw not the great glass doors of the hotel he was expecting, but rather a modest storefront, blue-painted doorway gleaming cheerfully through the rain.

“Sherlock,” he said cautiously, “I thought. Well, Mycroft did say he’d booked us a suite, and…”

“Later.” Sherlock was already striding towards the store. “Might as well get on with this fool’s errand. Step lively, John, no time like the present.”

John checked his phone to see what time it actually was. Not as late as he’d thought; apparently Portland, like London, suffered from early darkness on rainy January days. He splashed along in Sherlock’s wake, hoping his irritability wasn't a sign of things to come. 

The shop door swung open with a chime. John wondered what Mycroft’s diplomatic mission had to do with the shelves of glass jars, holding what seemed to be dried powders and leaves, lining the walls inside. It didn’t seem at all like the halls of power Mycroft usually inhabited. And it smelled odd; unidentifiable scents layered one on top of the other. Perhaps the elder Mr. Holmes was forging alliances among the Wiccans.

John stifled a giggle at the idea, and realized he was probably a bit loopy from the long journey.

“Yes?” said the brown-haired woman behind the counter. “Can I help you?”

Sherlock stared at her for an impolite amount of time. “Fascinating,” he said finally. “Fuchsbau.”

“Gesundheit,” said John, thinking the strange smells must’ve irritated Sherlock’s nose.

The woman’s face, which had been remarkably open and sympathetic-looking, tightened. She wrinkled her nose and seemed herself to sniff the air. “Who are you? You’re not Wesen. Or Grimm.”

“Ah,” said Sherlock, drawing an envelope from the inside pocket of his coat. “I believe this will explain things. If you are Ms. Calvert.” He held the envelope inches from her hand.

She nodded and took the paper, while John widened his stance to parade rest and prepared for another lengthy session of people tossing incomprehensible names and terms back and forth. Different continent, same old story.

“Rosalee? Is everything all right?” The man, who had entered from the hitherto unseen depths of the shop, was as tall as Sherlock, but more loosely built—heavy shoulders under a wooly jumper, close-set eyes above a scruffy beard. There was something about him John couldn’t quite make out.

Not so Sherlock. “Blutbad,” he declared, and, honestly, if John had known they were crossing the Atlantic Ocean just to end up in some lost German colony, he would’ve brought along his phrase book.

The man had the same reaction as the woman to Sherlock’s designation, except to a more menacing degree. His jaw tensed and his hands came up and John had the sinking sensation he would be truly dangerous in a fight.

But Ms. Calvert—Rosalee—put a hand on his arm. “It’s okay, Monroe—I know the names on this letter. They’ve had dealings with the Resistance before.”

Monroe read over Rosalee’s shoulder. “ _My brother Mr. Sherlock Holmes_.” He looked up. “That you?” Sherlock made a gesture like a bow. “ _Would be grateful for a chance to discuss our possible contribution of resources for the great battle soon to be upon us_.” Monroe raised his eyebrows. “Kinda grandiose, your brother.”

“Always,” said John.

“Right,” said Rosalee, with an air of command that belied her general appearance of affability. “We might be interested in what he’s offering, but there are people I need to consult before any discussions occur. We’ll meet tomorrow. Give me your number—I’ll let you know the place and time.”

+

Monroe insisted on driving them to the hotel. “C’mon, this is Portland,” he said, loading their holdalls into the boot of his vintage beetle. “No one calls cabs when they have friends.”

John wasn’t sure when Monroe had become their friend, but his shift from vague menace to effusive generosity seemed genuine enough, if peculiarly American. In any case, jet lag was starting to tug at John like quicksand, and he didn’t feel up to refusing.

Monroe followed them up to their room as well, peppering Sherlock with incomprehensible questions about the Seven Families and the Royal Houses and things called the Verrat and the Laufer. John’s befuddled mind tried to make sense of it all. It seemed so unlike Mycroft, who he’d always assumed supported the status-quo in any situation, to side with anything calling itself a “resistance.” “Families” made John worry that Mycroft had got himself involved with the Mafia—perhaps mafia of German extraction, though John had never heard of such a thing. But “Royal Houses” made him dread that they’d been dragged into something else involving the Queen. He gave up and let the words swirl around him.

At least the suite Mycroft had booked them was a sight for sore eyes: plush sofas, giant flat-screen TV, well-stocked mini-bar. Through the doors to the bedrooms, John glimpsed gorgeous, down-duvet-covered, king-sized beds. He sighed in appreciation and relief.

He got to enjoy the view for about thirty seconds before the ninja appeared. 

The man came out of nowhere—hidden in the room’s elaborate drapes, perhaps. He was compact and remarkably nimble, wielding what John identified with shock as a katana—hardly an assassin’s usual choice of weapon. He bore down on John with a kind of war shriek, and all John could do was hold up a hand to futilely ward off the blow. He felt the blade slice into his palm just as something rammed into the man, knocking his sword away and throwing him backwards.

Startled, John stood gaping at the two bodies now struggling on the thick pile carpet, one hand clasped tightly around the other to stem the flow of blood. He’d assumed his rescuer was Sherlock, although it was unlike Sherlock to engage in such close combat. But no—it had been Monroe.

Or at least, the creature wrestling the ninja was wearing Monroe’s clothing. John squinted. From the collar of Monroe’s jumper an extremely hairy head now sprouted. Its face, what John could see of it, was more of a snout, long vicious teeth snapping for purchase.

 _Blutbad_ , he remembered Sherlock saying. _Holy bloody fuck,_ thought John.

At least the werewolf-that-had-been-Monroe appeared to be on their side. A good thing, too, since the katana-bearing ninja had also shifted into something very furry and possibly tusked. The two fought furiously, with teeth and claws and guttural growls. John was conscious of Sherlock coming up beside him and kicking the sword decisively out of reach. Finally, it occurred to John to pick up one of the room’s heavy lamp stands and knock the ninja decisively over the head with it the next time he rolled in their direction.

“Thanks,” said Monroe, shifting back to his usual form with a strange little jerk of his head. He appeared entirely unhurt, his jumper and plaid shirt only rucked up a little in the back.

“Don’t mention it,” said John, squatting to check the unconscious man’s pulse—he, too, had returned to human form.

“Verrat,” said Sherlock, spreading the man’s palm to reveal a tattoo of interlocking diamonds.

“Dude,” said Monroe, “that is so not good.”

+

“Few days vacation, you said. See the beautiful Pacific Northwest on Mycroft’s tab, you said.” John was sitting on Monroe’s couch holding an icepack to his injured hand until it was numb enough to stitch, and he was furious. He wanted to curse Mycroft for sending him to protect Sherlock from things that shouldn’t rightfully even exist, but Sherlock was the one standing in front of him and would have to do. “Forgot to mention the ninjas, did you? Forgot to mention the bloody werewolves?”

“Actually,” Monroe put in mildly, “we don’t like to use that term. It implies a certain lack of control, if you know what I mean. We say blutbad, or Wesen.”

“Do we now? And who’s ‘we’ when he’s at home? No one I know.” John was vaguely sorry to be so ratty with Monroe—he had, after all, just saved their lives with his werewolf trick. But his hand hurt, and he’d ruined his favorite blue-striped jumper staunching the wound, and he was in no mood to be charitable.

Monroe didn’t take offence. “You two must be starving, after your flight and the day you’ve had. I’ll just heat up the mushroom frittata I have in the fridge—and I have some tea that’s just the thing for pain and blood loss.”

He disappeared into the kitchen. John blinked after him. After so long living with Sherlock’s gloom, irascibility and condescension, Monroe’s casual kindness was almost more shocking than his ability to turn into a wolf. Poking at his palm, John decided he’d done all he could with the ice. Monroe, among all his other improbable attributes, was a clockmaker, and he’d rustled up a sterile needle and thread with no difficulty. John set about threading the needle as best he could.

“John,” said Sherlock from his stance by the window, “let me do that.”

“No.” John jabbed the needle in his direction. “You’re not coming anywhere near me right now. I’m not even speaking to you. I’ll do the bloody thing myself.”

In the end, however, it was Rosalee who put four neat stitches into the palm of John’s hand.

“Are you one of them too,” he asked, as she wrapped the sutured wound with sterile dressings from the well-stocked first aid kit she’d brought.

Rosalee nodded, making the same odd gesture with her head. Short, ruddy fur covered her face for an instant, and then was gone. “Fuchsbau,” she said, showing small, remarkably sharp teeth.

“Okay. Right. Okay.” John lowered his eyes to watch her deftly tying off the dressings. “Thanks.”

“So the Verrat know you’re here.” Rosalee pressed a cup of Monroe’s foul-smelling medicinal tea into John’s good hand, but addressed her words to Sherlock. “Your brother doesn’t seem to have been as circumspect about your mission as he should’ve been, Mr. Holmes.”

“Mycroft’s secretiveness is above reproach,” Sherlock told her dismissively. “It’s more likely an index of how closely the Royal Houses are watching this obscure corner of the world. Your little false document operation has not been as discreet as you think. My brother appears to be right; the conflict between the Royals and the resistance is spreading and intensifying.”

They went back and forth like this for a while, with Monroe interjecting the occasional question. John stopped trying to follow the increasingly arcane terms and accusations and devoted his attention instead to Monroe’s excellent frittata. He was ravenous—surely he’d missed more than one meal by this point. But even the hot food and tea failed to warm him. He’d stripped to his vest to deal with his hand, and now he felt his bare skin begin to goose-pimple. _Great_ he thought, _Here it comes. On top of everything else, I’m going into shock_.

“Sorry about your sweater, man.” That was Monroe, suddenly perched on the couch beside him. “That was a nice one. I’ve got some stuff that’s good on blood—I’ll try it later. Meanwhile—here.” He thrust a stack of folded cotton and wool at John. “Not the cleanest, maybe—but they’re warm.”

John looked at Monroe. He’d put on a heavier jumper himself—a brown mohair cardigan with elbow patches and pockets that was remarkably like the ones John’s granddad had always worn. Just the sight of it was warming. Incongruously, John wondered whether Portland was the kind of place one could procure such sweaters and whether Monroe might show him where to look.

For the time being, though, he just accepted the proffered spare. Both jumper and shirt were absurdly big; John had to roll up the sleeves multiple times to get his hands through. They smelled not wolf-y, as he had feared, but of cooked onions and watch oil, and maybe a little bit of wood smoke. They were, as Monroe had promised, warm.

And that was all it took for the whole ridiculous night to catch up with John—jet lag and were-ninjas and his injured hand hitting him like a true Pacific tsunami. He huddled deeper into Monroe’s clothes and let the voices around him fade to a dull buzz.

+

John woke to watery morning sunlight. Someone had tossed a multi-coloured throw over him and let him sleep out the night on Monroe’s couch. He had no idea where Sherlock had slept or even if he’d slept at all. The conversation that had been going on when he fell asleep seemed to be going on still.

A stab of guilt prodded John upright. Mycroft had sent him to make sure Sherlock didn’t get into trouble, and he’d fallen asleep on the job, leaving Sherlock in the company of persons— _creatures_ —of uncertain provenance.

But a quick survey of the room revealed nothing worse than coffee mugs and beer bottles—no obvious drug paraphernalia in sight, no smell of tobacco. Sherlock’s level of agitation and pique seemed, if anything, lower than usual.

With a sigh of relief, John surveyed the other people present more carefully. Rosalee was missing, but a new participant had taken her place—a dark-haired young man, leaning against the mantelpiece facing away from John.

John sat up and rubbed his eyes. But the tell-tale bulge of a hand gun in the waistband of the man’s jeans did not disappear. John reminded himself forcibly of the greater legality of firearms in North America. The man’s gun did not mean that his suspicion about Mycroft and the German mafia had been correct.

“You’re awake,” Sherlock said delightedly, catching John’s movement. He looked rumpled, but much happier than he had the night before. “Meet Detective Nick Burkhardt. He’s a policeman. And a Grimm.” Sherlock said the word with special emphasis, like this was something John should be delighted about too. “Mycroft told me that a Grimm had formed an alliance with the Wesen here, but I couldn’t believe it until I saw it with my own eyes.”

“Pleased to meet you, I’m sure,” John muttered. “What do you turn into?” 

But Nick, like just about everyone else in Portland who wasn’t trying to kill them, failed to take offence. His hawk-nosed face was friendly as he shook John’s hand. “Nothing,” he said. “I’m just the one trying to keep tabs on the whole mess. You up to getting some coffee? We’re just about to leave.”

+

“Tea, please,” Sherlock told the tattooed boy behind the counter.

“Black, herbal, green or Rooibos?”

“Hmm? Oh, black please, as black as possible.”

“Which one?” said the boy. Sherlock looked blank. The boy pointed a longsuffering finger at a card by the cash register with an impressive list of complicated names.

Sherlock squinted at it.

“I’d suggest the single-estate Assam,” said the boy, with an air of having said the same thing many times before. “Not organic but it has a nice flavour.”

“Fine,” grumbled Sherlock, paying and taking the steaming cup. 

“Don’t steep it too long,” warned the boy. “You’ll ruin it.”

Then it was John’s turn. “Coffee. Black,” he said, hoping to avoid a lengthy set of questions.

No such luck. “Medium, light, or dark roast?” asked the boy.

“Dark. The free-trade organic, please. And one of those.” He pointed to the row of pastries—he still felt like he was catching up on meals.

“Vegan, gluten-free, or low fat?” the boy asked, and John wished heartily for a fry-up at a London café.

“He’ll have the apple streusel,” Monroe said, rescuing him yet again. “Friend of mine makes them, all local ingredients, you’ll love it.”

John murmured his gratitude and took his breakfast over to the table already colonized by Sherlock and Nick. He bit into the pastry, which was as delicious as predicted. One sip of the coffee, though, and he forgave Portland all its shapeshifters and ninjas, the size of its raindrops, and the jetlag he’d incurred to get there. It was possibly the best coffee he’d ever had in his life. Even his hand stopped throbbing. He fairly purred with contentment. 

Nick, meanwhile, was grilling Sherlock, seemingly as fascinated with Sherlock as Sherlock was with him.

“So you can see them? And your family aren’t Grimms?” Nick asked, leaning forward over the table.

“Of course I can.” Sherlock was at his most dismissive. “The Holmeses have always been able to see Wesen. You don’t need some kind of special genetic marker—you just need to be observant. Of course, I’ve always been of the opinion that it’s better to leave well enough alone. It’s Mycroft who’s made finding out about the Seven Royal Houses and the Laufer and the Verrat his pet project. Infernal busybody. He’s got it into his head that the Royals are starting to hold too much influence in ordinary bodies of power. Hence his support of the resistance—very unlike him otherwise, Iet me tell you.”

“Do you mean these—these Wesen—are everywhere? Even in London?” John broke in. The coffee had cleared his head for the first time in what felt like days, reawakening his curiosity at the same time.

“Especially in London,” said Sherlock.

“But you’ve never said anything.”

“As I said, I prefer to leave well enough alone. I don’t tell you everything I see, John. I’m sure you prefer it that way.”

John considered. Surely there must be more to the story of the Holmeses and the Wesen than this. True, Sherlock’s commitment to meddling did not quite match his brother’s, but sheer curiosity usually got him involved in a good proportion of the unusual things he observed. It was hard to believe that he’d never delved into the affairs of British Wesen. Could this disinterest be a recent development—an attitude produced by his post-Irene apathy?

But before he could press for more information, Sherlock’s mobile chimed: Rosalee, texting him the time and place of the meeting with the other Portland Resistance leaders. 

They’d agreed already that Sherlock would go alone to represent Mycroft’s offer. John had hoped that would mean he’d have a few hours to luxuriate in caffeine and carbohydrates, but Nick seemed to have other ideas.

“Wanna see if we can track down that Verrat Hundjager?” he asked.

“Hell, yeah,” said Monroe, and what could John do but go along?

+

“I had an aunt with a caravan, too,” John noted a short time later. “Used it for holidays in Blackpool, that sort of thing. Filled the old tub with beach umbrellas and cigarette packets. Never seen one with weapons, before. Handy.”

“Pretty neat, huh?” said Nick, oblivious to the sarcasm. “I think this will do.” He extracted two wicked-looking serrated knives from an old-fashioned wardrobe and handed one to John. “Sherlock says you’re ex-military—think you can handle one of these?”

“I, uh, well.” John swallowed, felt the spirit of the thing rise up in him. “Yeah, sure. No problem.”

Somewhat to his relief, however, the knives remained unused. Nick’s search, by way of the police computer and a review of the hotel’s security feeds facilitated by his detective’s badge, turned up nothing more than the ninja’s probable point of entry. The man had regained consciousness before the cleaning staff had arrived in the morning, and although Monroe tried to find a scent trail, he’d come up dry. They were left as ignorant as to who had informed the Verrat of their mission as they’d been at the start.

Afterward, perhaps as compensation for the disappointment, Nick treated John to a bacon donut—a proposition that sounded as oxymoronic as a vegan werewolf but which tasted surprisingly good. He and Sherlock never made it back to the hotel that night, and as John settled himself on Monroe’s couch again, replete with Oregon Pinot Noir and fiddlehead risotto, he decided that the Pacific Northwest was everything he’d dreamed of after all.

The next day brought more ambrosial coffee, the miraculous restoration of John’s blue-striped jumper, and, perhaps best of all, a Sherlock who finally seemed engaged with the history of Grimms and Wesen. He gleefully installed himself in Aunt Marie’s caravan to read through the more ancient books, Nick went back to regular police duty, and Monroe took John to the Hoyt Arboretum. 

“Dude, these are nothing,” Monroe told John as he gaped at the Sequoias and Redwoods. “You gotta come for longer next time—I’ll take you down to Brookings—we’ll make a real road trip of it. You can find the best thrift-store sweaters down there, too.”

It sounded nice, but before John knew it, he and Sherlock were back in the departure lounge of PDX, the tingle of Rosalee’s kiss still on his cheek and the ache of Monroe’s hug lingering in his ribs.

“Are they really everywhere?” John asked.

“Wesen?” said Sherlock, not looking up from the pictures of Aunt Marie’s books he’d snapped with his phone. “Oh, yes. Everywhere.”

John observed Sherlock’s gimlet-eyed intensity with a mixture of fondness and relief. Sherlock was clicking through images of rare Wesen with the ardor he usually reserved for slides of a murderer’s DNA. Perhaps Mycroft had been right—perhaps this trip to Portland had scraped off a little of the despair. 

With a feeling of surprising contentment, John surveyed the people waiting at the gate. He’d spent days with Wesen now, surely he’d be able pick them out from the crowd. He zeroed in on a woman with wispy—yes, mousy—hair. There was something about the jittery way she pushed the strands back from her face—too rapid, almost scrabbling.

John nudged Sherlock. “Her?” He pointed surreptitiously.

Sherlock gave the woman a good stare. “Nope.”

John sighed. He looked around again, his eyes falling on a middle-aged, rotund man, red in the face, with an underbite that seemed on the verge of turning into porcine incisors.

“Him?” John nudged Sherlock again, pointing.

“Really, John.” Sherlock began rolling his eyes, but before he could launch into a full-blown rebuke, his phone chimed.

“Monroe?” John asked. “Did we forget something at his place?”

“No.” Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “Mycroft. He wants us to know there’s a member of the Royal Families living in Portland after all. Something of a black sheep—wrong side of the blanket, he thinks. Almost in hiding out here. Not much information—just a name.” Another text chimed through. “And this picture.”

John peered over Sherlock’s arm, silently contemplating the astronomical costs of international texts. Once he saw the image, though, he elbowed Sherlock in the ribs. “Just in time. I think he’s about to introduce himself.”

They both stood as a very tall man in a beautifully-cut suit approached them. _Him_ , John thought. _Him I’d be able to pick out of a crowd_. He looked royal.

“Nice coat,” the man said to Sherlock. “Would you mind telling me what you’re doing in my city?”

“Captain Renard,” said Sherlock. He didn’t offer to shake hands. “Just a friendly visit.”

Renard’s handsome face went rigid, as if he hadn’t expected Sherlock to know his name. Or perhaps it was his rank he’d thought to keep hidden. “And happily a brief one. You can tell whoever sent you that it will also be your last. You won’t find Portland as welcoming should you return.”

“I’ll be happy to pass on that advice.” Sherlock held his ground in the face of Renard’s blatant intimidation. He topped Sherlock by a few inches and outweighed him by at least a stone, but it took more than that to intimidate a Holmes. “I cannot guarantee it will be followed.” 

They hung fire for a moment, the tension palpable between them. Then Renard nodded, raked them again with his regal glare, turned on his heel and strode back along the airport walkway.

John let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. “Christ. What’s his game? Was it him who tried to have us killed?”

“I shouldn’t think so.” Sherlock was already sitting down again, calmly tapping something into his phone. “The Verrat only work for legitimate Royals.”

John tried to digest this. There were far too many factions in this thing for him to keep straight. But something else occurred to him. “Captain? Is he military?”

“No.”

“Police?”

Sherlock touched the side of his nose, not looking up.

“But then Nick—? Does he know?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“We should tell him—tell Monroe—this queers the whole pitch doesn’t it?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I expect they’ll find out soon enough. Let well enough alone, I say. Don’t want to be infernal meddlers like my brother. Come on—I think they’re calling our flight.”

John followed, with the happy suspicion that Sherlock’s declared neutrality in the affairs of Grimms, Wesen and Royals might be beginning to crack.

**-END-**

  
**Prompt** : I hope you don’t mind my retooling your SPN/Grimm prompt “Hunters and Grimms have a long, twisted, and sometimes bloody rivalry” to work for “Holmeses and Grimms”; I also included a version of “Who are you, what are you doing in my house, and who the heck is your tailor?" 


End file.
